we can all sleep together.

restless winter winds wind the houses, windows, streets. threads through every envy. treds through every winged moment: flight. fenced-in makes it hard to breathe. we weave together the streets. our dreams: a collection, a recollection. repressed memories. THE SPACE IN BETWEEN OUR fingers pressing. pressing attempting at palms. is this a sound or is this a noise? we sound off to the morning. THERE IS NO FEELING TO THIS TOUCHING. summer in february. the plant that promised good karma & salvation died during christmas vacation. I WAS AT HOME, NOT IN NEW YORK. the leaves turn brown, crumple, litter the ground. above, the trees are sillouettes. the branches: spiders. PLEASE. won’t you com home soon? break death. salvation, vacation. meet your god next to mine, ghosts until the end of time. DEAR, SIR: YOUR HEART SEEMS TO HAVE ACQUIRED A SILENT STUTTER.


Anonymous said...

this is alot

sarah said...

in a bad way?

Anonymous said...

posssibly? i dont know. maybe not. just dont listen to me

sarah said...

i always want to listen to you.

it is okay to be CRITICAL.

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